all the courtesans were decorated
in the most profuse fashion
and with tears being shed and looking grave
they shuffled with a heavy smile.

though the music was hideous
and fit no ear for comfort,
still the king's tone of voice
altered every interpretation.

a delirious dirge for Poetry,
clanged like trash can lids,
all for the rich and famous
to idle on while harrumphing.

dead is meaning, so we bury it
along with the unseen light
from an unlit lamp
held by us with no arms.

as we scramble for a seat
in Poetry's musical chair
and hope for a bent-knee sit
inside the august inner ring.

11/10/2005